


Joy in the Bookish Dark

by voleuse



Category: Touching Evil (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-31
Updated: 2006-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-04 06:13:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>There is no happiness like mine. I have been eating poetry.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Joy in the Bookish Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers through 1.09. Title and summary adapted from Mark Strand's _Eating Poetry._

The first night after his first case with OSC, Mark stands at the end of the conference table and wonders if they'll give him an actual office. Krakauer's desk is a nice one, freshly polished and emptied, but everybody looks at it, still. He doesn't want to be sitting there when people glare at Krakauer's spectre.

So he fiddles with the edge of his badge, tucked into his jacket pocket. He contemplates the Thai place he saw the other night, and half-settles on ordering a pizza instead.

"Hey, Rivers."

A hand claps on his shoulder. He looks up, and it's not Bernal, like he would have expected. Instead, Creegan's grinning at him, eyes honest-to-god twinkling. It's weird.

"We should get a beer or something," Creegan says.

"A beer?" Rivers blinks. "Yeah, sure."

"Excellent." Creegan's hand is still on his shoulder. "They should have beer at a bar or something, right?"

Branca emerges from Enright's office in time for the last sentence. Mark doesn't flinch, quite.

"Susan!" Creegan's still grinning, but his voice is quiet, curious. "Let's get a drink."

"Maybe not." Her lips twist into the semblance of a smile.

"Come on." Creegan squeezes Mark's shoulder, then he lets go, steps forward. "We can flip a coin. Or you can drink, and I'll stand next to you and pretend to disapprove."

Mark doesn't feel comfortable enough to laugh at the joke.

He ends up being the designated driver.

*

 

At the last place Mark worked, the guys used to have a poker game going. The OSC team plays Go Fish.

"Don't look at me," Branca replies to his stare. "Creegan thinks it's funny."

"It's fucking eerie, is what it is," Swopes grumbles. "I've never seen a man win so many hands."

Amidst the hubbub, Creegan is mimicking a shell game with three aces and a thumbtack.

When Mark approaches the table, Creegan kicks a chair over to him. "If you play it right, you can tell the future."

"Like magic?" Mark settles into his chair, and Creegan doesn't answer. "You're kidding, right?"

Creegan reaches out and pulls another card from the deck. It's the fourth ace.

Swopes chokes on his club soda.

*

 

There's a day left when they finish their latest case, so Enright passes a stack of cold cases to Mark.

The crime scene photos slide across the glass of the conference table. "What am I supposed to do with these?" Mark asks.

"Your job," Enright replies, and then he's walking back to his office.

Mark pours himself a cup of horrible coffee and resolves to have a very frustrating, very depressing afternoon. He divides the stack into three categories based on how much he'll want to drink after his shift is over.

He's inside a kidnapping case from 1997 when a manila folder thwacks into the profile. Mark doesn't even have to look up. "Hey, Creegan."

Creegan doesn't respond, and Mark pauses. There are photos in front of him, the victims. A grandmother. Two kids, young. Mark bites his lip, then flips the photos over.

When it's done, Creegan sits down. "I really hate that guy."

"What guy?"

Creegan tilts his chin, gazes at the upside-down photos.

Mark nods. "Yeah."

Then Enright's striding back into the room, a notepad in one hand and a cell phone in the other. A new case, and the press is chasing it. Branca and Bernal enter from opposite directions. By the time Mark returns his attention to the table, Creegan has already stacked the folders into their original order, with one exception.

The photo of the kids is at the top, face-up.

*

 

Stakeout procedure at OSC is typical--a car, two cops, and a bag of greasy fast food. Branca's working an angle with some councilman's wife, and Bernal wins the coin toss. Mark ends up paying for Creegan's fries, and he's forced to listen to the Beach Boys for two and a half hours. Before dawn.

Creegan, it turns out, has a decent falsetto. Mark manages not to join in for the chorus of "California Girls."

When dawn finally arrives, their suspect takes the bus to work, and they hand off to the next shift.

Instead of driving back to headquarters, however, Creegan parks in front of IHOP.

"Shouldn't we report?" Mark wonders.

Creegan swings out of the car. "We can call in the short version." He bends forward, stretches like he's about to sprint the rest of the way back. "Pancakes only take twenty minutes."

Mark braces his hands on the car for a second, then laughs.

"Hash browns and bacon." He tosses his mobile to Creegan. "And you're buying."

*

 

Enright doesn't make any announcement about Creegan's kids. It comes together through whispers, some file processing. The blank look on Creegan's face, except when they talk about the Atkins family.

After a briefing, Mark watches as Creegan spins in his chair. When he stands, it's too quick, and the chair skitters back, falls.

The clatter settles into silence, and everybody's watching Creegan, now.

He smiles, all pain and hollow. "I was, you know. Just--"

And he pauses. Stops.

He walks away.

"God," Branca breathes out.

Mark nods, but he can't manage to choke out a word.

The door doesn't slam when Creegan exits. It just swings, back and forth, until inertia takes effect.

*

 

After Korchinoff's hearing, Creegan mutters something about picking up something from his house. Mark shrugs, offers to drive.

On the way there, he wants to say something, anything. Maybe something about getting involved with a witness, or fucking a ballerina. He wants to say something that will smash the silence.

Creegan is humming under his breath, but he's otherwise completely still.

When they pull up to the house, Creegan opens his door before Mark's finished braking. He lopes across the yard, and Mark counts out five minutes, six, seven.

He knows what he'll find even before he pushes past the gate, but he has to check. He has to see.

But he can't watch.

He walks back to the car, and slumps back into the driver's seat. He'll wait as long as it takes.


End file.
